10 – Cosmonaut

If his adrenaline wasn’t surging before, it was now, as Roan plunged into the front room, a beehive of panicked activity as people ran, hid, fought, or just desperately tried to escape. The place smelled of fear and blood, and the lion was dying to burst out of his skin and join the party.

The leopard was long but scrawny, suggesting he’d been  a thin male, but not so thin that he couldn’t throw around two hundred pound men like beanbags. Roan had to fight his way through the throng and roared, as much a challenge as the cat version of “Get out of the fucking way”, and he made some women scream while the panic ratcheted upwards. He was aware the bathroom door was hanging by a single hinge, and right in front of it the leopard was munching on one of the frat boy types that had been cheering on the faux lesbians. One guy grabbed a kitchen knife from a drawer and before Roan could say anything (could he speak? He felt he was losing the ability already)  he plunged it into the leopard’s side. It looked like he was going to yank it out and stab it again, but the leopard had turned with a roar of pain and sunk its teeth into his arm. Now the man screamed and punched the leopard in the head, as if that would make it let go of him, but the leopard just shook its head like a dog, making the man stumble as he screamed/sobbed in pain.

Roan jumped, tackling the cat and wrenching it away from the man as they rolled on the floor and he slammed the leopard bodily into the wall. The man still had most of his arm, but not much; blood was gushing to the floor, and his arm appeared to three-fourths off, held on only by a few strands of sinew and a fragment of bone. He took a side step stumble away, then passed out. Someone almost immediately stepped on him in a rush for the door.

The leopard was trying to wrench itself away from him, its claws dug into his leg like it was trying to dig through them, and he punched it, not once but twice in rapid succession, hard enough to crush a Human skull like a raw egg. It only stunned it slightly, made it shake its head and stop digging. It was pure effort of will to find his voice, it was fucking painful, but he managed it. “Get out of here!” he shouted, and it became a roar at the end. Hey, he was glad he was intelligibly Human for that long.

It hurt to stay even slightly Human, but he tried, if only because he had to remain mostly Human until Dylan could get out. He wasn’t going to risk accidentally killing him, even if it was the path of least resistance.

Pain was a hum in his head, a low voltage electrical thrum, and with it was the bloodlust, the urge to feel blood in his mouth and flesh between his teeth. When the leopard sunk its teeth into his arm, trying to get away, Roan sunk his teeth into its neck, biting through fur and meat to hot, coppery blood. He could taste the tainted chemicals in it, though, and tore himself away to spit it out, taking a chunk of flesh with it.

The cat roared and squalled, hurt enough that it twisted free of him and darted for the other side of the room, jumping up on the edge of the overturned couch and causing those behind it to scream. Roan jumped on the cat, and they both tipped the couch over even more as people scuttled away. The leopard tried to claw free, shredding his chest, and he kicked it into the wall, feeling the initial double kick of his feet shatter ribs.

“Out, everybody out!” Dylan was shouting, trying to push the final stragglers out the door. Darby almost tripped over the man with the half severed arm, and then when he saw him he vomited up all that Red Bull and vodka. Hardy, with no delicacy at all, shoved Darby out the door, and Dylan followed, but not before grabbing the guy with the semi-severed arm by his shoulders and pulling him out the door. That slowed him down, and the leopard tried to scramble for him (and presumably the open door behind him) but Roan lunged and grabbed the cat, slamming them both into the stove hard enough that the oven door handle came off. The cat was starting to panic now; its glazed eyes rolled in its head, and there was actual foam dripping from its mouth, like it was rabid. Its breath smelled liked fertilizer and chlorine.

It dug claws into his legs, midsection, chest and arms, tearing skin, ripping at muscles, and attempted to bite his throat, but it bit his face instead, its teeth sinking into his cheek until it popped through the skin. He could taste its fang in his mouth, and it made him furious. Pain was nothing now; he hurt too much to feel anything specifically. It was all one hot ache, from head to toe, and almost all of it was internalized as he fought to keep the lion from taking over completely.

He grabbed the cat’s lower jaw, and pulled until he heard a noise like cellophane crinkling, only louder and wetter. It screamed, an odd noise between a roar and a shriek, and its claws were frantically scratching away his skin as it yanked its head away (and its teeth out of his face), and it managed to twist out of his grasp. But the door was closed, and the cat almost ran head first into it, its claws scratching against the blood slicked floor as it slipped. With nowhere else to go, the leopard turned on him, growling, but now blood had joined foam dripping from its lopsided jaw.

This whole time he’d been snarling, tasting blood in his mouth (the poison was like a plastic coating on his tongue), feeling cold air coming through the hole in his cheek, and he wanted to tell it not to do it, that he’d kill it if it kept this up, but he’d lost the ability to speak for the time being. Not that the cat would even care – it was mad with drugs and pain (it still had the knife sticking in its side), and wouldn’t understand him anyways. He thought he heard sirens, far beyond the thin walls of the apartment, and he wondered what would happen then. This cat was too far gone to save, and he was certain no one would even try.

There was a noise, a kind of whimper, and the leopard looked across the room, somewhere beyond the overturned sofa, and he smelled new fear amongst the old. Oh shit, someone was still alive in the room.

The leopard lunged, but so did Roan, and he caught it half way across the room. They both went slamming into the wall, literally into it, Roan felt his skull break through the drywall and plaster, and dust salted down on him and the squirming cat. He was vaguely aware that the one who was still alive was a woman in a bra top and miniskirt, who was so covered in blood it looked like a red cape covered half her body. She was half dragging herself towards the opposite corner of the room, but she wasn’t going very fast.

The leopard tried to bite him in spite of its broken jaw, its claws raking up his flesh, trying to crawl over him to get to the woman. It couldn’t bite her, couldn’t rip her throat out, but its claws were sharp and it could rip the shit out of her like it had him, only she wasn’t as likely to survive it. He tried to hold it, but despite the broken bones he could feel beneath its flesh, he knew it was beyond pain and just wouldn’t stop. The drugs had made it batshit insane.

Beyond the walls he heard the thudding of boots on the stairs, the cat squad responding to the threat, and he knew they’d just kill it. What else could they do? Drugs didn’t put these cats down, only bullets did, and since there was at least one person still alive in the room, flying lead wasn’t conducive to anyone. He knew what he had to do, and he really didn’t want to do it. And yet he did want to do it, very much so. The Human part of him was conflicting with the lion part of him, but he didn’t know who wanted what. Maybe they both wanted the same thing but in different ways – in spite of the bad taste of his blood, the lion wanted to rip into its neck for seconds.

He had enough of his humanity to feel horrible as he grabbed the leopard’s narrow head and wrenched it sharply, with a sound like a rifle shot. Its body jerked and it went limp with a smell like death. He was still smelling fear, sharp and acidic, and saw that the girl was still staring at him in wide eyed fear, trying to make herself as small as possible in the far corner. It took him a moment to realize he was still growling, and he forced himself to stop.

He dug his hands in the cat’s still warm fur, and muttered, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” The lion wasn’t sorry. The leopard had been weak, sick, diseased – it had to die.

The door exploded open, followed almost instantly by a macho shit cop (Garcia, of course), shouting, “Where’s the cat?!” Roan was sure he must be imagining it, but he would swear he could feel a gun pointed at his back.

“It’s dead.” In fact, he had his hands still on it. Couldn’t Garcia see it? Did he think there were two?

“Search it,” Garcia snapped curtly, and Roan heard two of his squad come into the apartment and check out the bathroom and bedroom. It didn’t take long before gruff male voices – always macho; everybody on the cat squads were so aggressively macho they all seemed to be overcompensating for something – reported, “Clear!”

“Hands on your head, McKichan,” Garcia barked, as Roan stood. He ignored him, and that clearly pissed Garcia off. “I said hands on your head!”

Roan turned to glare at him. “Fuck you, I just did your job for you.” Garcia was just a black clad nothing, a generic soldier, a man dressed in high impact riot gear (with stab vest, which had almost no effect against claws or teeth), with a large caliber handgun out and aimed at him. All the cat squad looked the same, they were all dressed the same and had roughly the same body shape, generally mesomorphs to the last man (and woman – there was one woman, perhaps their bid for diversity), and while their faces were different, there was something about them all that made them blur together in Roan’s eyes. Garcia may have been the only one over thirty. Interestingly, Garcia was also the only one who had his gun aimed directly at him, although the other members of the squad were eying him warily. He knew he was probably covered in blood, and he had no idea if his face was completely back to Human or not – when he was in this state, so full of adrenaline he would swear he was humming with energy, that he couldn’t feel pain, and therefore couldn’t feel anything. It was Novocaine for mind, body, and soul, and he wished he could feel this way all the time.  “Got a hurt person in here. Bring in the EMTs.” He gestured to the woman in the corner, who still looked like she was trying to merge with the wall.

Garcia gestured violently with his gun. “Clear the scene.”

He was trying to eye fuck him, and Roan eye fucked him right back as he left the apartment, the pain starting to creep in, the adrenaline an ebbing tide leaving agony in its wake. Every step was like walking barefoot on broken glass, but he made sure not to show it around Garcia or the other black clad goons. The EMTs (this pair he didn’t know) did a double take as they walked past him in the corridor, and the black female one stopped and started coming towards him. “He doesn’t need treatment,” Garcia said, stepping out into the hall and intercepting her. He still had his gun drawn, but it was aimed down at the floor. “Nothing kills this fucker.” Garcia gave him a toothy grin that was just one step above a snarl, and his eyes almost glowed with hate. The EMT noticed this and looked to him questioningly, but Roan just shook his head. If he needed medical attention, he could wait until this prick was miles away.

It was a narrow upstairs corridor, and the armored, black clad members of the cat squad eyed him with either nervousness or discomfort (or both) as they lined the hall. Only Garcia knew him well enough to openly despise him.

He heard footsteps on the stairs, and Dylan calling out, “Roan? Are you okay?”

“Get that maricon out of here,” Garcia barked, and two of the closest troops responded, blocking the top of the stairs and basically herding Dylan back down.

Why did that make him snap? He had no idea, except splashing contempt on him was one thing – throwing it on Dylan was absolutely another.

There had been no decision to move, at least not on his part; the lion was still so close to the surface it was pure reflex. He grabbed Garcia and threw him against the opposite wall, pinning him there with one hand on his throat as he ripped the gun out of his hand and aimed it at the rest of his shock troops. To keep Garcia from getting any leverage, he was holding him an inch off the ground by his throat – he could feel the fine bones of his neck starting to bend under his fingers, and he wasn’t even gripping him all that hard. Or at least not as hard as he wanted to. “Save the shit for me,” he growled (literally, of course – it just went with the rage at this point). “Keep my partner out of it. Entienda?”

Garcia was turning deep red, shading towards purple. Roan was aware that his shock troops had raised guns on him – tranquilizer guns, but still – and he told them, without looking away from their boss, “If I wanted to kill him, he’d already be dead. Holster those before someone gets hurt.”

Garcia tried to talk, despite the lack of air. “Fucking dick -”

“I’ll let you go as soon as you agree. Not before.”

“Holy fuck,” a familiar but unexpected voice exclaimed. It was poor Officer Thompson, once again a witness to a partial transformation aftermath. He needed to send the guy a fruit basket. “Garcia, are you fucking with Batman again? Jesus Christ, you don’t fuck with Batman. Not only can he kick your ass, he’s one of us.”

Roan dropped Garcia, mainly because the tension that had infected the hallway was now snapped by the introduction of another cop. Sure, just a uniformed patrol cop who got stuck on the third watch for unknown reasons, one who had no jurisdiction over the cat squad, but clearly he knew Garcia. It broke a circuit.

Roan stepped back, out of kicking distance, and he tucked Garcia’s gun into the waistband of his pants. Oh sure, he’d have to give it back, but it was a deliberate bit of emasculation: he’d taken his service weapon away from him, and he was going to have to ask for it back. It was a symbolic version of ripping off his dick.

Garcia coughed and choked in air like a half drowned swimmer, bent over and grabbing his throat, and the rest of the squad lowered their guns. As soon as Garcia could speak, he rasped, in a painful voice, “Why do you think I did anything? This fucker’s a psycho. And he ain’t one of us.”

“According to the Chief, he’s as good as. And you’re always starting shit, Garcia, that’s what you do.” Thompson looked at him now. “Gonna explain yourself, Batman?”

“He refused timely care for an injured civilian because I was still in the room, aimed a weapon at me for no reason, and he used a gay slur against my boyfriend. Also, he’s a dick.”

“World’s full of dicks, Batman. You can’t crush all their throats.”

“That’s bullshit,” Garcia snapped, straightening up. “And why do you keep calling him that stupid nickname?”

Thompson pointed at him while giving Garcia a genuinely confused look. “”’Cause he’s Batman. Dude, he was about to kick all your asses.”

“No he wasn’t,” Garcia replied angrily, his voice sounding like an awful, strained thing. How close had he come to crushing his larynx?

The discussion stopped as the EMTs came out, the male one supporting the bloody woman and holding a gauze pad to her head as he helped her down to a lower level where they might actually have room to fit a stretcher. The female EMT was following the male, and on her way past she grabbed Roan’s arm, and said, “Come on. Don’t make me call Dee.”

Well shit – she knew Dee? Damn it. He had no choice but to go with her, feeling like he was slowly but surely cutting himself open with a dull razor blade with every step. Now that the rage was subsiding, the pain came back double time.

But he still had Garcia’s service weapon. Man, was he going to get shit for that. It might be the only good thing to come of this entire night.

9 – The Blind House

Roan knew he had to act. The problem was, what could he do? Seb was definitely not at work now, he was off shift, and if he called him at home he’d just wake him up. There probably wasn’t anything he could do until daylight. Too late.

Dylan noted his restlessness, and said, “You might want to get dressed first.”

Somehow he’d forgotten he wasn’t wearing anything except for a towel. “Oh. But a naked man ranting gets a lot of attention.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that. But probably not the kind of attention that would be helpful.” He then turned towards the opposite nightstand and grabbed a magazine he hadn’t noticed there before. “Speaking of which, the article’s out.” He held it towards him with the full page picture of him (he had no idea it was going to be a full page) side out.

“So this was what Luke was talking about.” It was actually a good picture, probably one of the best ones of him he had ever seen. His back was turned to the cafe window, so you could see the street beyond, overcast and grey, very noir.  As for Roan himself, his hair was the color of dried blood, and shiny enough that it looked half wet, while his eyes were an unearthly green, the lids at half mast with either physical exhaustion or a general weariness with the world, although somehow he looked more alert than truly sleepy. The scars on his lip and eyebrow stood out ghostly white, little lines that could have been negative scratches on the photographs. Ironically, you could make out the words “panic” and “freak” on the t-shirt he wore, half covered by his leather jacket (it was his “Now Panic and Freak Out” shirt, so he’d set himself up for that). His face had a lean, almost feral look that he wasn’t sure he liked seeing.

“That is gorgeous,” Dylan said. “We need to get me a smaller version I can carry in my wallet.”

“I look … dangerous.” It was funny how that was the first thing that occurred to him. He thought he looked like a coiled snake in humanoid form. If he encountered the man in the photo, he would keep an eye on him.

“Yeah, sexy dangerous.”

So either he didn’t see it, he was pretending not to see it, or Roan was projecting. He flipped the magazine over to see the beginning of the article. The header at the top of the column, Future Leaders Of America #8: Roan McKichan, Leader Of The Pack. “Well, at least he didn’t go for pride,” he muttered, reading the opening lines of the article: There is no designated leader amongst the tens of thousands of infected Americans, no organized group. And the uninfected are lucky, because the most obvious leader is Roan McKichan, a man of such overwhelming magnetism and intelligence he would be unstoppable. “Holy shit, is this a hagiography?”

“Kind of. He even says in the article he’s not gay, but your charisma is so powerful he found himself attracted to you. He has a huge man crush on you. And I’m super impressed you could use hagiography in a sentence.”

“I don’t have charisma. He’s in the closet.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Of course you have charisma. It’s why cute guys are always sniffing around you. Speaking of which, can I borrow your taser next time we go out?”

“Knock yourself out.” He rolled up the magazine, and wondered if it would make good kindling. “You know, this couldn’t have come out at a worse time. Good thing only three people read this.”

Dylan gave him a half smile. “Ah, he said that you were quick witted enough that you could have been a comedian.”

“If this guy just wanted to blow me, he could have asked.”

“He didn’t?”

“Nope.” After a brief pause, which he hoped sounded natural, he asked, “He didn’t imply I had super human abilities, did he?”

“No, but he flirted with it at times. Still, he was so clearly crushing on you it could be excused as purple prose.”

“Good.” He gulped down the rest of the ginger ale and gave the magazine back to Dylan before standing up and putting his now empty plate and bottle on top of the dresser. The towel fell off, but he didn’t care, as he was already grabbing underwear out of the top drawer.

“Did you think that was a possibility?” Dylan was trying to sound casual, but clearly he was curious.

“Yeah. He pretty much told me he knew I wasn’t Human, and he wanted a comment. I refused to confirm anything.”

“You know, you don’t have to get dressed on my account.”

“Come on, I’m cold, and no one likes shrinkage.” He pulled up his shorts with a snap, and then started searching for a clean pair of jeans. Damn, he was behind in his laundry.

Dylan shifted on the bed, springs creaking as he moved into a more comfortable position as he watched him get dressed. Roan noticed this as he stepped into his  jeans, and when he went to the closet and pulled out yet another of his weird t-shirts. Finally, he asked, “What? Are you waiting for me to apologize? Okay. I’m sorry I didn’t call, I was a self-centered ass, I won’t do it again.”

“Good. But right now I wonder where you think you’re going.”

He decided on a Pansy Division shirt and pulled it on before answering. “I can’t just stay here and wait. I’ve got to go out and see if I can find out where the tainted burn is coming from.”

“Which means what exactly?” When Roan hesitated to answer, and started to search for his HK instead, Dylan guessed, “You’re going to go talk to some drug dealers, aren’t you?”

“I was thinking of talking to Kevin first, but I’m working towards that.”

“Let me come with you.”

That surprised him, but he didn’t know why. “Dyl …”

“I know who was the biggest pusher of club drugs at Panic. He was always hitting on me, trying to give me freebies, probably hoping if he got me high he could get into my pants. We show up tonight, I bet he’ll tell you all about burn distribution.”

He stared at him in genuine admiration. “Look at you, playing an angle. I’ll corrupt you yet.”

“Well, if you believed in certain tenants of Catholicism, we’re born corrupt.”

“Actually, since we’re gay, most of the major world religions see us as corrupt and degenerate.”

He scoffed as he stood up. “Wouldn’t life be more fun if we were?”

“See, that’s my argument.”

While he finished getting dressed, Dylan changed his clothes from sweatpants and  a paint stained t-shirt to more presentable black jeans and his white “So many right wing Christians, so few lions”   t-shirt (“It makes me think of you,” he said). Roan was sitting on the end of the bed, pulling his boots on, and he almost sat on the magazine. He picked it up and looked at the header again, and asked Dylan, who was in the bathroom, “What Sisters of Mercy song has the lyric  ‘In the land of the blind, be king’?”

After a toilet flush and water running in the sink, he opened the door and said, “Dominion. Why?”

He tossed the magazine on the opposite end of the bed, really wanting to tear it up, but he figured Dylan wanted to keep it for some perverse reason. “I knew you were a goth.” The song lyric had just popped into his head for some reason, but he felt admitting that might let on how crazy he was.

“Well, duh. I was a tormented, angsty, artistic teen. If emo existed then, I would have been that.” He held up his wrist and pointed at it, even though it was currently covered by a watch. “I have the scars to prove it.”

See, they had that in common, except Roan didn’t have scars on his wrists. Everywhere else, sure.

It was like old home week at Panic. Mighty Mouse was working as bouncer on the door, and after giving them bone crushing bear hugs, waved them through. Once inside the very loud club, they were greeted with a very enthused reception as soon as the bartender and regulars recognized Dylan. They got drinks on the house as Dylan leaned over the bar and asked Jeremy if Hardy was around. He wasn’t, he’d been and gone, but one of the guys at the bar, a tall Japanese kid with long emo styled hair (speak of the devil) dyed a pale brown and streaked with blue, said he could show them where Hardy lived. It was only a couple of blocks away.

There were introductions all around, and the kid, named Darby (really?), led them out, chatting the whole time. He couldn’t have been more than twenty three, and he seemed wired, but drinking vodka and Red Bull could do that to you, especially if you combined it with something. Roan could smell chemicals coming from him, and asked what he took. “Adderall. Want some?” He told him he was more of a downer guy and declined. Darby went on to say he was only into “safe” drugs, like Ritalin and Adderall (safe to whom?), and he didn’t count booze or pot, ’cause they were harmless. (What the fuck ..?! Obviously he’d never been called to a drunken domestic disturbance.) He said he’d heard about burn, that it took all pain away (which would explain its attraction to the infected), but he wasn’t curious enough to try it. The kid jabbered and twitched, but he seemed nice enough. Still, had Roan been this much of an idiot when he was his age? Maybe. He was dating Connor then, wasn’t he? So yeah, he was.

Hardy lived in a slightly run down apartment complex called the Rochester, on the street where the gay part of the city joined the poor side of the city. A group of youths in baggy clothing with gang colors were huddled near the base of the stairs, smoking cigarettes laced with something chemical, and they eyed them warily as they went up the stairs, but didn’t do or say anything. Roan found himself wishing they would, just so he could burn off some energy.

Hardy’s apartment was on the top floor, and they could hear the stereo (and Roan could smell the drugs) in the stairwell about two levels down. Of course Hardy was having a party (it kind of rhymed – was that where the name Hardy came from?) and Darby didn’t bother knocking, he just walked in. A repetitive, simplistic bass line rolled over them, something rap, but the stereo was so loud the high tones had fuzzed out and he couldn’t figure out for the life of him who it was, and they had to shoulder their way through a crowd of half dressed kids. Some looked no older than fifteen, and some of the women were already down to their bras, dancing to the wolf whistles of drunken, stoned men. There were a couple of girls on the couch kissing, faux lesbians that were being cheered on and urged by even more men. The place smelled like beer and sweat and testosterone, the light fogged by a miasma of pot and crank smoke, and much to his surprise, a girl in a crop top who couldn’t have been eighteen grabbed Dylan from behind and asked loudly if he wanted to do a body shot, while the jailbait in the bra who grabbed  Roan wasn’t so subtle, she grabbed his crotch. He ripped her hand off and shoved her away – perhaps a little too violently – while Dylan just peeled the hands of his admirer off and said he didn’t drink.

Darby knew exactly where he was going, which was disturbing. As he led them to the bedroom, Roan noticed that one of the faux lesbians looked strangely familiar – a hooker? Yes. How many of these girls were working girls? Oh shit, the room was filled with women willing to fuck for drugs. Jesus.

The bedroom was pathetic. Just a mattress and box spring wedged against the far wall, an overturned crate serving as a table for a thrift shop lamp, a pile of dirty clothes lumped next to a slightly deflated beanbag. Sitting slumped on the mattress in a pile of flat, stained pillows was a scrawny white guy with a dragon tattoo on his neck and a naked woman tattoo on his left pec. He had a shaggy mullet that looked like it hadn’t been cut or combed in a year, and while he had a bit of a beer gut, the fact that he was wearing nothing but a pair of low riding board shorts revealed that he didn’t have a single scrap of muscle tone. Roan could smell his body odor from the doorway.

Sitting on the mattress with him was two girls – hookers? Or just junkies? – both exceptionally scrawny women, the white one down to her bra and panties, the Hispanic one wearing a miniskirt that could have been made out of a napkin and a tube top that was just barely covering her breasts. The white girl had track marks and a Cesarean scar on her belly, while the Hispanic one had a tattoo of a heart on her calf. So was he bisexual? Must have been, if he’d dedicated himself to getting into Dylan’s pants. The guy – Hardy – had a glass crack pipe in his hands. “Fu Manchu, how ya been? ‘Sup, Toby? You look awesome.” His eyes lingered on Dylan in a way that suggested obvious lust. Yep, bisexual, or just gay for Dylan. (Possible. He was that good looking.) “Who’s the dude?”

Roan volunteered, “Jobe.” Dylan looked at him askance. What, he couldn’t make a semi Arrested Development joke?

Nobody got it. Darby said, “They wanted some burn.”

Hardy shifted on the mattress, idly scratched his ass. “Burn huh? You guys don’t look like the type.”

“I’m infected,” Roan volunteered.

“Me too,” Dylan lied.

This seemed to change the dynamic in the room. Both girls moved back on the mattress, like they might get it from proximity, while Darby looked at Dylan in wide eyed shock. “You’re infected? Wow, when?”

“Recently.”

“I’m outta burn,” Hardy admitted. “Want somethin’ else? Got some oxy.”

“Out?” Roan repeated in disbelief. “How can you be out?”

“Ever’boy’s been wantin’ it tonight. Fuck if I know why.” He paused to fire up the crack pipe and take a hit. The smell was so astringent to Roan’s sinuses it made his eyes water, even from this distance. After exhaling the smoke with an almost orgasmic sigh, he added, “Try the church.”

“The church?” Dylan repeated in disbelief.

“Divine Transformation?”

Hardy nodded, passing the pipe to the white girl. “There’s some guys that have been selling to the kitty fuckers – ’scuse my French – and they usually show up for whatever shit they’re doing. I shoulda thought of it, it’s a lucrative market, but it’s too late for me to branch out now. It’s Spaz’s territory.”

“Spaz?” Often dealers went by nicknames. For some reason, Hardy and Spaz just seemed like very white, suburban nicknames to him. “Who the hell is he?”

He had no idea if Hardy was going to tell him or not. He opened his mouth to say something, but there was a loud noise followed almost instantly by screams and an animalistic roar in the front room.

“What the fuck ..?” Hardy exclaimed, jumping to his feet, as all of them turned to look at the bedroom door.

Roan felt the hair stand stand up on the back of his neck as he instinctively growled and his hands curled into fists. There was a noise, a little crackle, and if anyone had been looking at him they might have noticed the skin on his arms boiling as the muscles twitched and shifted shape. But no one was looking at him.

The screams continued, there was a firecracker pop of gunshots, but that just made the roaring and screaming worse. It was a leopard, and he heard from behind him the click of a gun’s safety being toggled off. “No guns,” Roan said, not bothering to turn around. He was now growling loud enough that Darby gave him an alarmed look and retreated to the back of the room. Dylan didn’t; he stayed right beside him as he stalked towards the door. “If you can’t get a decent head shot you’re just pissing it off. Whatever happens, stay behind me.” That last bit was for Dylan alone, but he didn’t mind if the others stuck to it. He didn’t know if it would help or not.

He didn’t really know if he could hold the lion back enough to keep himself from attacking the people. But he supposed he had to try.

8 – I Drive The Hearse

Roan stopped by his office and sat there for an unmeasured amount of time – maybe thirty minutes, maybe three hours. He took a handful of pills, uncounted as well and also unknown, and when he didn’t fall into a coma, he figured he ought to go before Fiona showed up. If she showed up. He had no idea if she was coming in today, mainly because he wasn’t sure what day it was.

He should have headed home, but he couldn’t face Dylan. He had no clear plan where he was going, but time and place seemed to slide by like an unconvincing dream, and when he was more aware of things, he was in the hospital lobby, wondering why he was here. “Roan?”

The voice was somewhat familiar, but he couldn’t place it. He looked at the young male nurse in green scrubs, with dusky skin and an open face that was growing more concerned by the second. “Luke?” he finally replied. Dee’s boyfriend, the one with the annoying habits. He should have asked Dee what they were, but honestly, it didn’t matter. Dee thought he was annoying for having so many books, never calling when he was going to be late, and hating video games. Luke was probably a very rational person who simply had the misfortune of liking something Dee didn’t.

“You look like shit,” Luke said. “Are you okay? Are you here to see someone?”

“Holden,” he replied, even though he knew Luke was probably hoping he was seeing a doctor. He looked that bad? Well, being up all night and taking a handful of downers was going to do that to a person. “How is he? Can I see him?”

“Oh. Krause, right?” He walked over to the admission desk, and went behind it to tap a few things into the computer. After a moment, when an older woman stopped behind the desk, Luke said idly, “I can see you two being related. You have the same jaw line.”

For a moment, Roan thought the drugs had really kicked in, but then he realized the woman with the unfortunate haircut was some kind of supervisor, and the idea of him seeing Holden couldn’t even be entertained if Roan wasn’t family. So Luke was implying he was. He nodded, and said, “He’s the only living family I have left.”

“Well, it’s not visiting hours, but since you’re family, Doctor Cho will probably want to discuss his case with you. Deeanna, is Cho in his office?”

Another nurse, this one a woman with a slightly Haitian accent, said, “No, I think he’s in lab five.”

“Okay, thanks.” He briskly walked out from behind the desk and started down the hall, with a very businesslike, “Follow me, please.”

Roan did, and once they got in the elevator and the doors closed, Luke turned to him and said, “He has a lot of broken bones, some internal bleeding, and we’re waiting to see if he has any lingering brain injuries, but his scans turned out as good as we could have hoped.”

“So he’s gonna live?”

“I’d say so. But … is he the one that’s a hustler?”

“Yeah.”

“Well … I hope he saved some money. It took eight staples to close the biggest gash on his scalp, and some of his hair had to be shaved off. He also has a fractured orbital bone, although the swelling should be on its way down by now. He got a tooth knocked out too, but somehow he didn’t get a broken nose. Figure that one out.” The doors opened and he walked out, and Roan followed, feeling dazed, like someone had hit him with a shovel and the force of the blow was still ringing through his head. It wasn’t what Luke was saying about Holden, mainly because Holden was better off than he expected. He was exhausted, drugged, felt vaguely sick, and wasn’t sure how much longer he could stay on his feet. Luckily, he seemed to be floating – or maybe the floor was actually wavering.

“You’re saying he’s disfigured?”

“No. He might have a scar or two, but he’ll heal. It’s just it’ll take a few weeks before his face isn’t a bruised, swollen mess.” Luke opened the door to Holden’s recovery room, and even though there was another bed in there, it was currently empty. “Not that it’s related, but I saw that article on you. And holy shit, that picture of you – wow. Even Dee agreed that if he hadn’t already dated you and knew what a miserable bastard you were, he’d be all over you.” Luke looked at him again, and grimaced in a painful way. “Dude, I think I’m gonna get you a chair and take you back to the ER. You look like you’re about to die on me.”

“I’m tired,” he admitted, heading over towards Holden’s bed. His feet still worked, he was still walking, so that was something. “I’ll be okay. I probably just need coffee or something.”

He scoffed. “No, I think you need a coroner.” Proving that perhaps there was some justice in this world, Luke’s beeper went off, and he said, “Shit, the crazies have come early today.” He left, the door closing behind him, and Roan said to nothing, “I’m a singular, not plural.”

Of course Luke hadn’t been referring to him, but he might as well have.

Holden was a white lump amongst white sheets, his right hand and wrist in a fresh cast, surgical staples, angular and blackish, were visible on his collarbone where it peeked out from beneath the sheets (just to the right of a very blatant taser burn), and more were in a loose crescent on the side of his head, where a divot had been shaved into it. His left eye was swollen shut and so deeply purple it was almost black, he had three staples in his chin, and his lip was still torn, but it would have to heal on its own. His bottom lip was swollen to almost three times its normal size, and extensive bruising and bleeding beneath the skin made his face and neck a shade of purplish-burgundy. He was hooked up to two different IVs, and a machine was monitoring his life signs. Roan could smell the drugs coming from him – they gave him some nice painkillers – so he figured he’d be out for a while.

And Luke was right about him not being able to hustle for a while, because right now he was unrecognizable. “Maybe it’s a good thing you’ve always been one of those odd hot guys,” Roan said, as he pulled a hard plastic chair up to his bedside. “You know, not an immediate knock out like Dylan, but sort of … strangely appealing, although no one can quite say why. That almost sounds like an insult, doesn’t it? But I must be the same way. I’ve been told I’m “striking”, which I always interpret as “ugly in an interesting way”.” He sat down with a sigh, and rested his forehead on the edge of the bed. “I got them. The guys who did this are probably in hospitals right now. But I think I’m done; I don’t think I can be around Humans anymore. I think I need to be locked up for everyone else’s safety. Mainly because I liked it. I took these men apart, and it could have been worse. When I’m angry, I feel like I could punch right through someone’s chest. That has to be an overstatement, a lie … but I wonder. Snapping bones is no problem. Why couldn’t I punch through a sternum, through a chest wall? I can break someone’s skull with one punch.” It struck him as perversely funny in a truly awful way, so he giggled as he admitted, “I’m a supervillain. Or maybe I’m just an insanely violent hero. Maybe I just need the rest of The Authority to show up and save me from myself. And see there I was comparing myself to Midnighter, a reference perhaps only three people in this entire hospital will get. Dylan’s right – I’m such a nerd.” He felt unbalanced in his own head, like his brain had come loose and was about to slide out his ears. How nice would it be to totally disconnect from his body, just leave it behind like a husk.

He might have blacked out for a moment, because he had a sense that time had passed around him and left him behind. He sat up, slumping against the unforgiving plastic, and realized his throat still hurt. You’d think all of the pills he took would have calmed it, but apparently not. “You know what? You could take my place. Fi is pretty much a detective now, so she could show you the ropes, and you guys could take over my agency while I am locked up in a zoo where I belong. Just check in on Dyl from time to time, make sure he’s okay, and ignore any bad vibes you get from him. He doesn’t seem to like you and I’m not sure why, although he’s so good at being Buddhist you probably don’t even realize it.” He rubbed his eyes, which felt like they had been replaced with heated marbles. “I wish there was an old monster’s home where I could go. I need to retire.”

The door opened, and he expected Luke, but much to his surprise it was Dylan, looking rumpled and slightly sleepless, wearing his bomber jacket. “Jesus, Roan, where have you been? Would you please turn your fucking cell on, I’ve been worried sick.”

Oh, his phone – he’d forgotten he’d turned it off before he embarked on his magical misery tour. He reached into his coat pocket, found it, and turned it on. It hummed in his hand, and when the screen lit up, he saw he had several messages waiting for him. “Sorry, I forgot.”

Dylan had looked pissed, but as he came over towards him, he grimaced painfully, and his anger morphed into pity. “You’ve been up all night, haven’t you? You look like you’re going to pass out.”

“I feel that way too.”

“Let’s get you home, okay? I’ll yell at you later, when you’re more conscious.”

Roan was going to protest, but he had no idea why, so he nodded and meekly got up, swaying slightly on his feet. Dylan reached out and steadied him, and kept holding on to his shoulder. “What about my bike?”

“I know some guys, I’ll get them to pick it up.”

“Good. I love my bike.”

“I know you do. Sure I can’t check you into the hospital while we’re here?”

“Very funny.”

“I’m not kidding.”

“I’m sure you’re not, but I just wanna get home.”

He had only the vaguest memories of getting out to Dylan’s car, and almost no memory of being in it, except he was pretty sure that he admitted to Dyl he was a monster. Dylan of course told him he wasn’t, but he wasn’t sure he told him in the car in retrospect, because he remembered Dylan holding him and telling him he wasn’t, that he couldn’t be. He couldn’t recall the reason why he wasn’t.

He woke up feeling not so much hung over as feverish, and not well rested. But he must have slept a while, as it was dark outside, and once again he had a feeling of time having passed around him. You’d think he would have dreamed, but the drugs had weighed him down so much he hadn’t, or at least he’d had no memory of it.

He was still so tired he didn’t want to take a shower, so he took a bath, and once in the water he didn’t want to get out. Dylan must have known this, because he perfunctorily knocked on the door before coming in, holding a plate of food and a brown bottle. He’d hoped it was a microbrew, and it was, but a microbrew ginger ale. “I thought you were going to sleep until tomorrow.”

“I wouldn’t have minded.” The smell hit his nose, and his nausea slid into hunger. He’d made his famous huevos rancheros, which Roan couldn’t get enough of in spite of the fact there was tofu in it. “Oh, you bastard. The secret weapon.”

“You have to eat, and I know you’ll eat this.”

“In the bathtub?”

“I’m attempting to lure you out. You’ve been in here almost two hours.”

“Have I?” Weird. He could have sworn he just got in.

Dylan put the food on the dresser in the bedroom, then came back with a towel. “Come on, let’s go.”

“I’m not a child.”

“No, but you seem ill. You even look flushed.”

“I’m in a tub full of hot water.”

“It was hot maybe an hour ago. I bet it isn’t now.” He was right, but he wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of that. “How many pills did you take?”

“Today? None.” Well, was it still whatever day it was this morning? Oh fuck, he had no idea. He really should have looked at the clock.

“Yesterday.”

“I don’t know.”

The look Dylan gave him was harsh and unrelenting. “You know, I put up with the pill popping because I can’t imagine the pain you’re in, but I’m not going to stand by while you put yourself in a coma.”

“I can’t put myself in a coma. I could take eight bottles of pills and nothing would happen.”

“Don’t even think that.”

“I’m not Human, Dylan. The amount of drugs needed to put me down permanently are off the charts.”

“Stop it. Stop this shit now. You are Human, and I’m tired of hearing you say that about yourself.”

“No Human can do what I have done,” he said, levering himself out of the tub.

Dylan looked uncertain for a moment, then approached him with the towel. “You went after the guys that hurt Holden, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. But I don’t think you want to know what happened.”

Dylan enfolded him in the towel, and Roan was content to let him. “No, I don’t.”

He then turned away, heading out into the bedroom. Roan followed, the towel wrapped around him, keeping him dryer if not exactly warmer, and Roan sat on the bed while Dylan retrieved the food and brought it to him. He took it with a grateful nod, then admitted, “I’m an animal. I can’t be around people anymore.”

“No. You just proved you’re Human,” he said, sitting down beside him.

That almost made him scoff as he shoveled a forkful of eggs into his mouth, but he was too tired. “What I did was -”

“Human. I didn’t even recognize Holden in that hospital bed. Beaten to a pulp doesn’t begin to describe it. Animals have no desire for vengeance; it’s a Human passion, a Human failing. Animals don’t get embarrassed, don’t laugh, and they don’t seek revenge.” He opened the bottle of ginger ale and held it out to him, although he wasn’t looking at him.

Roan took it and downed half the bottle in two swallows. After a moment, he said, “Wow. Couldn’t you do me one little favor and stop being smarter than me?”

He patted his thigh in a comforting manner. “That’s wisdom I learned the hard way. Remember what chased me into Buddhism in the first place?”

Oh yes – his all consuming desire to kill the man who killed Jason. He even bought a gun, and planned how he was going to sneak it into the courthouse. “You fought the urge.”

“Yes, by turning it inward and trying to kill myself. I wouldn’t recommend it.”

After a moment’s pause, he asked, “How fucked up are we?”

Dylan snickered, but it had a humorless quality about it. “Life is fucked up, honey. We’re simply reacting to it.”

Roan leaned against his shoulder, and Dylan leaned back, so they were resting their heads together. “This all proves that I should worship you. You are so out of my league.”

“Stop that. I am a lowly bartender. I am out of no one’s league.”

He chewed another forkful of fluffy eggs smothered with homemade salsa, and wondered if it was the food or Dylan that had made him feel a bit better. Maybe both. Oh sure, he was still a monster, but a Human monster seemed somehow more manageable. A glance at the bedside clock informed him it was after midnight. “Speaking of which, shouldn’t you be at work?”

He shrugged, and slipped an arm around his shoulder. “I slept so poorly last night, I figured fuck it. I got Mandy to cover my shift for me; I’m going to cover her shift Sunday. It’s weird, I never thought I’d say this, but I miss Panic. Despite the sleaze and the occasional grope, it seemed like a nicer place.”

“Better tips?”

“A bit, not much. It just seemed … I don’t know. I can’t explain it. It was like there was a tacit agreement the world outside the doors was really fucked up, so let’s party. In Silver, it’s a tacit agreement that the world would be better if everyone just knew their place and stuck to it.”

“You could always go back. I’m sure Panic would welcome you. Everybody loves your pecs.”

He gave him a smirk that was almost a grimace. “There’s so many bad memories there for me, though. Eric was murdered, and some white supremacist freak tried to kill you there as well.”

“Yeah, but he picked the night I was with a hockey team. That’s the definition of bad timing.”

“The fact that he was a monumental idiot doesn’t negate the fact that he tried to kill you. Oh, that reminds me, you ought to check your messages. Some of them are really interesting.”

“Oh. How much shit am I in?”

“You personally? Not much. As an infected? Hon, it’s looking grim.”

“Shit.” He enjoyed another bite, this time with one of those tortillas that melted in your mouth (where Dylan got them he had no idea, but they were the best he’d ever had), and then picked up the phone and went through his messages. A couple were from an increasingly weary sounding Seb, who just said to call him if he could, until the fifth message, when he said, “Cat freak outs in Kapowsin, Olympia, Aberdeen, Forks, and supposedly we have one loose near Snoqualmie Falls. The death toll, not counting the cats, is currently seven, with twelve injured. This is just a shitstorm, Ro, and we’ve had reports that maybe something similar happened down in Portland. We’re gonna leak to the news media the possibility that tainted batches of burn are to blame, but we don’t know that for certain, none of the tox screens are back, and we have it on good authority that there may be an attack planned on Divine Transformation by enraged citizenry. Probably mouth breathing Glenn Beck supporters, which gives me enough reason to shoot them. Anyways, get ready, we may need to call you in at any time, and … we may need to put you into protective custody if this gets worse. And I think it’s only gonna get worse from here.”

Roan sighed wearily. Oh god, where were his pills? “It’s an epidemic.”

Dylan nodded. “There was an ugly protest outside the Church tonight that turned violent. Bricks were hurled through windows, someone tried to use a Molotov cocktail but set themselves on fire -”

“Awesome. Please tell me that’s on YouTube.”

He scowled at that, and continued. “ – a car was overturned, a couple people were bitten by pit bulls someone brought to the festivities, and what I heard on the news was twenty arrests, and a multitude of casualties, mostly self or crowd inflicted. There have been a couple of charges of police brutality, but I don’t know, they really seemed to be on the protesters’ side.”

“Wow, the idiots versus the morons. Who do you root for?” The last message, the most recent, was from Rosenberg, and had been left only forty minutes ago. “Kiddo, we got a problem,” she said, in her smoker’s rasp. “Your cop friend, the one who’s gonna be played by Denzel in the movie of your life, got me some samples of the drug. An older sample is just amphetamines basically, nothing special, but the newer sample … fuck me sideways, it has a chemical analogue of the hormone lepidysine, which is released by the virus during the transformational cycle. The drug is making them change ahead of cycle, I can confirm that, and there’s a mild hallucinogenic that’s probably driving them crazy in cat form. But here’s the thing: this is fucking impossible. When we’ve tried to synthesize the hormone for testing purposes, it generally fails, to the point where we just use some extracted from infecteds in cycle.” She paused to take a drag off her cigarette, but she didn’t sound any better. In fact, she sounded a bit pissed off. “So there’s some fucker out there who figured out how to synthesize this shit, in such a way that it triggers the virus. And it doesn’t do anything to regular humans, oh no, it’s just a drug to them, there’s nothing for the lepidysine to trigger. I’m having my interns at the university analyze this fucker down to its knee socks, I wanna know how he does it and where it came from. Oh, and one more thing: it’s a weapon. Whoever designed this – and this wasn’t happenstance; no putz is going to blindly bumble into this complicated a chemical formula – engineered it specifically to kill the infected. Hallelujah and pass the bullets, we have our first new designer chemical weapon of the twenty first century. When you said it smelled like a chemical weapons factory, you were bang on target. When you call back, give me next week’s lottery numbers, okay Kreskin?” And with that, she hung up.

Roan put the receiver back in the cradle, and looked at Dylan, whose sympathetic eyes told him he’d already heard the message. “I wasn’t sure how to brace you for that one.”

“There’s no prepping for the completely insane.” And it was, and yet, was he surprised? Things had been in a downward spiral, and nothing had broken it. Things never got any better, no matter what happened.

And now someone had declared war on the infected, and had drawn first blood.